


All Along

by audramh



Category: Outlander (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:54:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24655693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audramh/pseuds/audramh
Summary: Published on Tumblr June 17, 2019/ one-shot AU of Sam and Cait /Inspired by a recent post on how different things could have -- and should have -- been, if Outlander had been everyone’s focus and there was no narrative.
Relationships: Caitriona Balfe/Sam Heughan, Sam Heughan/Caitriona Balfe
Comments: 20
Kudos: 39





	All Along

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: SHIPPERY CONTENT.  
> Firmly rooted in the belief that Outlander's two lead actors are, and have been, together since before the season 1 premiere even aired.  
> If that's not your view, do be a lamb and keep it to yourself.

She was awake, and she was cold. The flat was quiet, save her husband’s rhythmic breathing. He slept under both sheet and duvet, leaving her very little of either. How very few people on this earth knew he was a cover hog, she thought, and yet those same people would be quick to call it endearing. She rolled her eyes and glanced at the alarm on her side of the bed: 12:47am. She should be asleep too. Their driver would be here in less than seven hours. There would be time spent in wardrobe and hair, and she dreaded the extra concealer that awaited her if she showed up with dark circles. Still, here she lay, more pensive than sleepy. Might as well try a change of scenery. She grabbed her phone for company.

She slipped out of bed and quietly padded to the kitchen. Maybe just a quick dram of the whisky samples they’d been trying out. She opened the highest cupboard where they were stored, well out of a curious toddler’s reach. There were eight glass decanters, all devoid of labels. They were simply marked A through H to remove any preconceived notions of depth and flavor as they sampled and compared characteristics, whittling them down to what would become the Great Glen signature flavor profile. She’d enjoyed a smooth one she’d tried the other day, but which was it? A? C? The low level of bottle G was all she needed as proof that one was heavy on peat smoke. His favorite. Compromising, she chose bottle B and poured.

She sat down at the table, sipped her whisky, pulled up Instagram, and scrolled back several years. Perhaps comforting memories would lull her back to sleep. A photo from their chemistry test, all the way back in 2013. It was this very post that piqued fans’ curiosity and led to the season 3 DVD extra. She was giddily nervous, he was sweating profusely. “That was YOUR fault”, he told her much later. It had hit him as soon as she walked in and shook his hand: he’d spent 34 years as half of the whole he never knew he could be. She took longer to get there, not wanting to succumb to such a cliché as falling in love with one’s costar, but it was pointless. Giving into it had lent authenticity not only to her life but to her character as well. By the time she delivered the line “This isn’t usual” on camera, she had long since meant it. She scrolled to the photo of them taken that day, on a tartan atop a mountain, on his birthday. That was the day he said “I love you” for the first time: his present to himself was to know that he’d told her.

A photo of their hands, her engagement ring prominently featured. She’d captioned it simply: “Yes.” Nearly 10K comments on that post. Congratulations and best wishes from family, friends, fans, cast and crew, network executives. They hadn’t known what to expect, but an outpouring like this was beyond their imagination. A photo from PaleyFest 2015, where Ron Moore had to rein in Kristin Dos Santos’ excitement to get her to focus back on the show itself. Their wedding photo, minus the kilt so many Outlander fans had expected to see. Their misplaced shock and furor was short-lived, thankfully. After all, it wasn’t Jamie and Claire’s wedding day; it was theirs. 

The photo of Eddie, asleep, next to a pair of baby booties. The caption was all her husband’s idea: to be honest by telling fans the Droughtlander between seasons 2 and 3 would be slightly longer than anticipated, asking for patience as they worked on “a very important personal project together”, and promising to share updates now and then. She had to admit: it was inspired. She scrolled to the photo she’d taken looking down at her growing bump, which was also helping to support a cup of tea. A photo of their newborn daughter’s feet. A nursing photo taken by her husband (she was no shrinking violet where functions of the human body were concerned, and besides: his protective instincts ensured it was tastefully done.)

Either the memories or the whisky kicked in, and she knew sleep would come. She put her empty glass in the sink, closed out Instagram, and quietly retraced her steps. Through the living room, past their gleaming awards: an Emmy for each (his for season 1, hers for season 2), and a Golden Globe (also his, for season 1.) Beaming with pride, she returned to bed. He didn’t wake, but instinctively curled toward her in sleep, enveloping her with his body. Luckily, she was able to get enough of the sheet and duvet to combat his ice-cold feet. God Almighty. He might well look like Jamie Fraser, but his cold feet always gave him away. A minute later, she felt the rhythm of her breathing match his and drifted off.

She was in Albrecht’s office being lectured, along with her husband, about jeopardizing his investment. The show. The largely female fanbase. She couldn’t wrap her head around what he was saying: he’s upset that we fell in love for real? Other executives chimed in, two corporate attorneys produced a drafted deal to quash their relationship. Publicly, at least. Legally it was binding, so they had no power to undo it. But God, this felt crazy. She looked at her husband, saw his strong chin quiver, and tried to steady him by rubbing his back before the strain got the better of her and she leaned forward to shield her face with her hands. Shock. Her face was going numb. This is shock. Breathe. Try to breathe. Stern voices gave way to yelling. The air in the room was suffocating with coercion. Now she was being interviewed. She heard herself saying they were “not together”. She was saying it on camera! She was denying their marriage! Avoiding eye contact at all costs. Trying to hold herself in check. Now another sound bite: she was calling the show’s fans “horny grannies”. Why was she doing this?! And Captain Kirk was shaming and attacking their fans on Twitter? This made no sense. They’d never even met him. Now she was on the red carpet with… her assistant, Tony? She looked down and saw not HER engagement ring, but a thoughtless substitute. And no wedding band at all. Where was her husband? She scanned up ahead until she found him, standing a little too close to a blonde. They seemed to move together in a pair. Ill-matched, to be sure, and he wasn’t being overly attentive, but nonetheless a pair they seemed to be. He didn’t make eye contact with his wife. She couldn’t even be sure he knew she was there. And now she saw herself in frilly, frumpy, shapeless clothes. She could see she was trying to hide her pregnancy. Why? Why would she do this? She loved being pregnant. Had they forced her to do this? To feel shame at growing a life inside her? What followed were flashes of hiding from public view when together. Secrecy. Never wearing their wedding bands. Never holding hands. Never standing too close at work events. Reining in their famously open-mouthed kisses on camera for good measure. Hiding. Pretending. Hurting. Lying.

She bolted awake with a loud gasp, which woke her husband. “OH my God”, she burst out. His hand went to her bare shoulder, then to her cheek and forehead. “You’re in a cold sweat, love. What have you dreamt?” She propped herself up, got her breathing under control, accepted his hand when he offered it, and answered: “It was all a lie. All of it.” Even in the darkness, she saw him briskly shake his head in an effort to understand. “What? What was a lie?” She remembered it vividly enough to tell him that she dreamt they’d been forced to hide it all. Their relationship. Their marriage. Their life. Their love. He was becoming more awake as she explained, and confusion had given way to comfort. “Babe, come here.” He pulled her to him, smoothed her hair away from her sweaty hairline, and told her the truth she knew but still needed to hear: “Shhh. It’s alright. We’re at home. Our home. You’re wearing your wedding ring, and so am I. Same as ever. We’ve been public all along. Everyone knows." She’d relaxed into his words, spoken comfortingly in a near-whisper, and allowed them to sink in. “You’re right. I know you’re right.” She exhaled deeply. “One thing: stay away from blondes, you hear me?” She sank into the shape of his body as he curled around her once more. “Blondes have never been my type and you know it.” He smiled and kissed her earlobe. “Go back to sleep, love.”

The next thing she knew, it was daylight. Their daughter leapt onto the bed, forcing space between them and plopping on her back. The airy duvet made a slight whoosh in response, and she placed her tiny hand on top of her Da’s open palm. He snapped his fist around hers like a Venus fly trap: their unspoken language that her tall, strong Da would always make her feel safe and give her his protection. She rewarded him with a high-pitched squeal as she always did. The three of them lay together for a bit. Da’s eyes had gone shut again, but his large hand hadn’t let up around their toddler’s. Their beautiful, blue-eyed girl with morning-mussed hair. Everything about this version of their life felt real again as she rolled toward the center of the bed and smoothed her daughter’s hair behind her ears and kissed her forehead. 

“Mam?”

That lovely word sounded like a single-syllable symphony to her ear. “Yes, my darling?”

“Brudder pooped.”


End file.
